ADress in Mind
by ShinkonoKokoro
Summary: Involves crossdressing. As a disguise. And with the utmost of professionalism. Because that's how Sherlock rolls. Except John discovers he can't handle it.
1. Chapter 1

John sat and rather literally twiddled his thumbs, pausing every once in a while to realign the tapping of his feet and pluck at the fuzz on the duvet on the hotel bed.

Sherlock hadn't said how long he would be gone, but John had dutifully texted him the room number. His instructions had been rather explicit.

As soon as they had pulled up to the hotel, Sherlock had grabbed John's arm, just as he began reaching for the door handle. He'd leaned in close and whispered lowly into John's ear.

"I need you to follow the instructions I'm about to give you very precisely, John. Do you understand me?"

John had nodded, confused at the time. Confused still.

"Go into the hotel, standing as straight and tall as you can, swing your arms a bit, like a swagger. Go up to the concierge and lean over the desk, staring fiercely at him. Be intimidating, Ask him for a double—book it under a Mr. Wesson. Pay cash—I have enough; don't worry. Be brusque and curt with him. Then go upstairs, text me the room number. Wait in the room and do not open the door for anyone. When I get to the room, I will knock five times, pause, and then twice more so you will know it is me. Wait to shower until I get back.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock just glared at him. "Will you do exactly as I say?"

"Yes, of course. It's a bit strange, but I—"

"John. Do it. Now go. Remember: let no one in save me. Drenkle's men could be anywhere." He shoved a handful of cash into John's pocket and all but pushed him out the door.

So John had done as asked, waiting for Sherlock to come back, worrying quietly. He checked the windows even though they were on the fifth floor, drew the drapes, and made sure the door was bolted. Then he pushed the bed back into the corner so it was away from the windows, and kept himself out of any possible line of sight.

He jumped at the first rap, counting to five, hearing nothing, then two more sharp raps. Undoing the lock quickly, he pulled the door open, jaw dropping at the haughty woman that swept into his room, dumping shopping bags on the bed.

"Shut the door, John!" Sherlock's voice hissed as he quickly circled the room, eyes darting around,

"Sh-sherlock!" John closed the door by feel, staring at what must be his friend underneath the cream blouse, loose slacks, sleek flats, sharp blazer, and long dark curls. "Oh my god. Is that really you?"

Tossing his head, Sherlock's voice coming from that image was entirely incongruous. "Don't be an idiot, John,. We're being hunted. They're looking for two men, one tall and dark-haired, the other coming to about the man's eyes and a dingy blonde. Therefore, we need to not look like the people whom they are pursuing."

"So you dressed as a woman?" John choked.

"I've been told I am adept at pulling off women's clothing," he replied stiffly.

"Oh?" John felt his brows go up. "By whom?"

At this, Sherlock dropped his gaze, cheeks pinking, and he mumbled words that sounded vaguely like "Mummy and Mycroft...Christmas...school play."

John grinned. "So me? My disguise is being... Mr. Wesson?"

"Yes." Sherlock rifled through the bags, pulling out a box of hair dye. "This first." Tossing it to John, Sherlock removed the blazer and rolled up the sleeves on his blouse.

"Black?" John protested.

"To the bathroom," Sherlock ordered. Placing a towel around John's neck once he had knelt in front of the sink, he grabbed the box and made swift work of John's hair, his long fingers massaging his scalp. Sherlock talked as he worked, explaining how their disguises would help them search for Drenkle and remain in the city. They would go to the latest victim's funeral tomorrow and question the family and friends.

"You make a striking woman," John murmured, lulled by the head massage.

The fingers stopped abruptly, and he glanced up at the mirror to see Sherlock's surprise fading into a sort of smirk.

"Geeze. Sorry. That's weird."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "Let that sit for 30 minutes. Now. For you. I've got you a fresh set of clothes for Mr. Wesson. A suit for tomorrow and slacks and dress shirts for other days."

"So basically dressing like you."

"If you wish. And you need to be taller."

"I can't just grow on command."

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "I've got you lifts. You'll be about two inches taller. Maybe three. Nearly my height."

"Wow."

"Yes. Now you won't be at the general vicinity of my ears when we stand side by side. I shall only wear flats. A woman my height would be self-conscious enough as it is; she would not want to be taller by wearing heels."

John hummed, eyes shut as Sherlock went on about questioning the family and methodology to make it subtle. The killer might be there. He liked to see the effect his work had on those close to the victim. Sherlock was going to be a friend from uni—Susan.

"Are you wearing make-up?" John blinked at him.

"Yes. Most women do."

"Oh. Right."

"Yes, John. Rinse your head. Or shower. But make it quick. I need to tell you more about Matthew Wesson, Susan's husband.

Buttons half undone on his shirt already, John squawked after Sherlock's retreating back. His friend only laughed.

By the time he was done examining his clean dark hair (eyebrows too), Sherlock was in the bed. Face as usual and dressed in his habitual night-time wear, he was looking through some papers while John pulled on pants and flannel bottoms. "Not a bad job on my hair, Sherlock. Is yours a wig?"

"No. Too obvious. Extensions. Get in bed."

"What?"

Sherlock fixed him with a look, closing the file. "It's a queen, John. There is room for two."

"Yes...but..." He felt his cheeks go hot.

"Get in," Sherlock repeated irritably.

John grumbled and stalked to the bed, shoving back the sheets to slide between them. "I'm warning you now—and not apologising for it—but I may end up on your side by morning."

"Matthew Wesson is a hard man, a doctor, so it shall be easier for you, only child, and angry at the world. His father made life difficult for him after his mother passed young. You'll scowl a lot. He married Susan six years ago. They're in love, despite arguing frequently," Sherlock said, lacing his fingers.

"Not unlike us then..."

"Susan is proud but emotional. An interior designer—giving me the freedom to ask for a tour of the house—and owns her own firm. Small, but well-to-do. She is proud of her husband, but frustrated with him for wanting children she cannot have."

"Wow..." John sighed, scooting down the bed to put his head on the freshly plumped pillow. "You can be that."

"Of course, John."

"And you just made this up? Or is this some kind of contingency plan?"

He felt the bed move as Sherlock shrugged. "We needed disguises. My brain provided the detail. Good night, John. You're falling asleep."

"'Night, Sherlock." He heard Sherlock hum in response, the light flicking out behind his eyelids, and then he was asleep.

John woke, the next morning as usual at 6 A.M., his arm curled around Sherlock's waist, one leg pushed flush against his curled form. He swallowed his groan and arched away from the other man.

"Good morning, John."

"Sherlock!" He pulled away quickly, pressing his lips shut against the apology forming in his throat. He said he wasn't going to apologise for his propensity for curling around the nearest object in the bed. Flat on his back, John flopped an arm over his eyes.

"Relax, John. It was an exercise as much for me as yourself. If we're to be playing married, then we might as well be comfortable touching. This was easiest."

This time John did groan, swinging his feet to the floor. "It's too early for this..."

"Get dressed, John, and pack your things. Your clothes are laid out over the chair, shoes beneath. From now on," Sherlock said as he rose, "I am Susan Wesson. Do not slip up." He pulled the baggy t-shirt off, dropping it on the bed.

John rolled his eyes, stumbling towards the bathroom. "I won't mess up, _Susan_."

Sherlock smirked, picking up a lavender blouse and sliding it over his shoulders.

By the time John finished in the bathroom, Sherlock was dressed and leaning over the dresser, towards the mirror make-up in hand. John wandered closer, fascinated as Sherlock swept the brush over the palette before highlighting his naturally pale cheeks.

"You never watched your girlfriends put on make-up, John?" Sherlock asked, voice tinged with amusement as he met John's eyes through the mirror.

"What? Yes... I just... how do _you_ know what to do?"

"Theatre, John. It's not terribly difficult. All one needs to do is highlight and shadow the contours of the face. It's like painting."

John shook his head. "You're amazing...!"

"Finish getting dressed, John. We're going to breakfast."

"We are?"

"Mm. We are Matthew and Susan Wesson. They go to breakfast. Therefore, we go to breakfast. When we check out, John, I want you to complain to the concierge about the room being too small, the bathroom dirty. Think of something. We'll be staying somewhere else tonight."

John nodded, pulling on the fine linen shirt. As expected, it fit him perfectly.

"Also, do something different with your hair."

Sherlock quickly packed a small purse, setting it on the bed while he came to John and straightened his collar more to his liking before doing up his tie quicker than John had ever been able. Smoothing the fabric across John's shoulders, Sherlock searched John's face, smirked, and then dropped a kiss to his cheek. Smirked some more when John flushed.

"This is going to take some getting use to..." he muttered, sitting to pull on the shoes.

"Acclimate quickly, John. Walk back and forth half a dozen times."

"What?"

"Get used to the shoes. How many times are you going to make me repeat myself today..."

John sighed and did as instructed, listening to Sherlock rummaging around packing. John stumbled a bit with the extra height, but adjusted by the third pass. He packed his own belongings with military efficiency and then slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Ready, darling?" Sherlock—_Susan_ asked, voice soft and husky, like she'd smoked too many cigarettes.

John whirled. _Susan_ had shades on, a floral scarf looped around her neck that complimented the lavender blouse, one hand gripping the handle of her suitcase, the other canted on her hip. "How many times is too many to be astonished in a twenty-four hour time period...? Honestly, Susan..." John grinned.

Sher—Susan grinned back. "Let's check out then. And get breakfast."

It took John well through breakfast, a stroll, checking in at their new hotel, and the cab ride over to the funeral for John to get used to Sher—Susan's husky crooning voice, swaying walk, haughty affectionate manner, and physical closeness. It helped if he tried not to see Sherlock beneath Susan. See the woman not the man. The problem with that was that John found Susan ridiculously striking. Not his usual type at all. But still... Sherlock was attractive enough as a man, if he could admit it... He shook his head as they walked up to the house. Susan cast him an arched look and John nodded to say that he was fine.

Susan knocked and became appropriately red-eyed and weepy, shocking John _again_, and greeted the woman who answered. "I heard about the funeral for Cassie! I'm Susan; this is my husband, Mattie. Cass an I were good friends in uni. I'm so sorry for your loss, Morgan."

"Susan?" The woman—sister? looked confused but accepted Sherlock's warm hug. "Cass never mentioned you..."

Susan ducked her head and flushed as she pulled away. "We...we fought last time... She..." Susan sniffed loudly and brushed away a tear. "I'm sorry! It was a stupid argument..."

The woman, Morgan, smiled kindly. "Please. Come in."

Susan smiled gratefully, linking her arm with John's. "Thank you so much." She lead him through the door and guided him to a seat. "Sit, darling."

"Have I told you you're amazing?"

"Not for an hour and a half."

"Jesus... There's a BAFTA performance right there."

Susan smiled, pinching the back of his arm. "Careful, Mattie."

John scowled, but took the hint. Sh—Susan looked around the room at the people, and John could fairly see him cataloguing their lives. So while Sherlock watched everyone else, John watched Sherlock. Susan. "Is he here?" John asked quietly while Susan pretended to examine her nails.

"I don't know yet, Mattie."

"Mattie? Really? _Must_ you call me that?" he groused.

Susan grinned. "There you are. My husband. The grinch."

"I hate you." John straightened and folded his arms across his chest. He shifted again and then stripped his jacket off, hanging it neatly over the back of his chair. It was hot in here, despite the linen shirt.

"Such a lovely shirt on you, darling," Susan said, brushing her fingers across his shoulder. "You always did look nice in blue."

John grunted, not even surprised when he saw that Sherlock's nails were painted a pale pink. "You sure pull out all the stops, Su."

She smiled, all teeth "You know me..." Then she turned to the person who sat on down on her other side and chatted away—fashion, dogs, children, everything. Susan was a brilliant conversationalist.

"Hey, mate. You're at a funeral. I understand you're supposed to look grim, but don't look _so_ stroppy..." A voice said to John's right as a man sat.

"Sorry. Wife's friend. Don't want to be here," he grumbled, looking at his watch. If Sherlock could do it, so could he...

The man grinned briefly and held out a hand. "Spencer Tavis. Friend of Cassie's from work."

John nodded. "Matthew Wesson. Su's a friend from uni."

At the mention of her name, Susan turned away from her new friend and extended a hand. "Pleasure."

"All mine," the man said, eyes roving.

John cleared his throat, brows dipping in.

"Mattie!" Susan said playfully, kissing him on the cheek again. "Sorry, Spencer was it? Mattie's just a bit possessive. But I'm afraid I am taken." She took her hand back, exchanged a few lines and then went back to talking to the woman.

"I can't even believe her..." John muttered.

Spencer laughed. "Some woman you've got there."

"You're telling me."

Spencer nattered on and finally everyone quieted as the funeral started. John eyed Sherl—Susan out of the corner of his eyes, watching with a sort of awe as she cried quiet tears, dabbing at her eyes in such a way as to not smear her make-up. He tried not to think about how Sherlock crying was a better performance than everything he'd seen on the telly lately.

"Mattie, darling, stop staring," Sherlock whispered in his ear, leaning against his shoulder.

John jumped. "Jesus..."

"I didn't know you found me so fascinating," Susan murmured.

John stiffened.

Susan patted his leg and then shifted back, a smug tilt of his lips.

John scowled.


	2. Chapter 2

The service finished and Sherlock—Susan dragged John up and pasted a soft smile on, circling them through the other guests. She chatted casually, including John who played the role of a disgruntled husband perfectly.

"Su... I need a breath of fresh air," John said finally, the humdrum monotony of the tearful apologies and condolences strangling him slowly. She nodded and gave him a peck on the cheek and sending him off to the back porch. John sank onto the steps and dropped his head into his hands, taking in slow deep breaths. He let himself breathe. When he finally stood, fifteen, thirty minutes later, he turned and gave a low shout, Sherlock standing there silently. "Jesus! Sh—Susan! Don't _do _that to a bloke!"

"Are you alright?" Susan asked. Though the eyes and the set of her mouth were Sherlock's.

John sighed. "I'm fine. I just... this is too much, you know?"

"Not comprehensively." She held out a hand, the gesture completely feminine.

"How do you do that..."

"We can leave. If you wish." The head head tilt was Sherlock's

John nodded. The headache had increased from a tremor to a rumble between his eyes, and he needed... He didn't know what he needed, but he needed to be away from here. "Do you have everything you need?"

Susan's eyes glittered as a thin smile floated across her face. "Yes. Drenkle was here, briefly. I know what he looks like now. We can get him. With his pattern, he won't take another victim until after the previous one is buried. He doesn't know we were her either. You've done goo."

"Thank God for that," he retorted wearily.

"We're going. Did you want to stop for dinner?"

John shook his head. "Let's just eat at the hotel please." Sherlock nodded and gripped his arm, John steadying with the contact. He waited in the cab while Sherlock jumped out and bought food at a café. They made it safely back to their room, John collapsing on the bed, Sherlock setting the food down and immediately pulling John to his feet.

"Hang your clothes. They'll get rumpled."

John groaned and allowed Sherlock to pull the jacket off of him, hanging it neatly. Sherlock returned, undoing the buttons with nimble fingers. John grabbed Sherlock's hands, stilling them.

"John?"

"This is... I can't do this. This is too strange. I can't."

Sherlock stepped away, nodding once before stripping off the clothes, becoming Sherlock again. If slightly more naked than John was comfortable with.

"The make-up. Get rid of it."

Sherlock nodded and vanished into the bathroom while John hurriedly stripped off the rest of his clothes and pulled on a fresh pair of flannel bottoms, sighing as he felt the stress ease out of his spine.

"Better?" Sherlock drawled as he exited the bathroom in a pair of flannel bottoms as well, towelling his face dry.

John sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh. Much."

"Did it bother you that much?" Sherlock tilted his head, eyes boring into him.

He shrugged and fell back, bouncing slightly. "I guess it did. It...it wasn't _you_, you know?"

"I do not. Please explain."

"You're Sherlock. Susan... Susan, while very attractive, is not real, nor is she in any way you. She's fake. She's... I don't know." John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I don't know what it was, other than it wasn't you. It was winding me up the whole day."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You're saying you prefer me, in my natural appearance, over this faux persona, Susan, I've created as an alias?"

"Of course!" John leaned up on an elbow, catching the flicker of surprise that crossed the other man's face. "It's..." He waved a hand at him, words suddenly failing as he realised just how true it was. "It's _you_."

"Yes. Of course it's me."

"No! That's—Augh. You are Sherlock. Not Susan. I know the difference. I...I got very confused all day long trying to see only Susan, but missing _Sherlock_, and then seeing glimpses of Sherlock in _Susan_, who wasn't you. And I couldn't... It was just strange. And uncomfortable. And I don't like it."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why! I just didn't! I don't know how to explain it to you, Sherlock, but I've had enough, once was fun, but now I'm done."

"We still have things to do tomorrow. And I need you with me."

"You need me with you. Well, you're so brilliant, I'm sure you can do fine by yourself."

"But..."

John blinked at Sherlock's sudden loss of words. "But what," he prompted more gently.

"I need my blogger."

"No. You just need someone to be clever in front of."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not... No. No, that's not it. This... This is important to you."

"What are you going on about?"

Sherlock strode over to him, staring down, examining every crease in John's face. "What are you telling me?" he muttered.

"Sherlock," John protested, rolling away. "I'm not some crime scene that you can just tease the answers out of. There's nothing..."

"You're not telling me something, and it's something I don't understand," Sherlock said urgently.

"Oh for..." He sat. "Listen. It's like... you go to the morgue, expecting to find Molly and dead bodies. Instead, you find a crime scene with a whole bunch of feet arranged to spell the word 'kill.'"

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Yes, it's very exciting. However, when you get closer, you realise the feet are all labelled with identification cards on the toes, and the killer dropped his wallet by the door." He almost laughed at the way Sherlock's face fell and turned into a scowl. "Yes. You see? It's very exciting at first, but quickly it turns into the dullest thing around."

Sherlock sighed and folded his arms across his bare chest. "Very well. I see your point. However, I would like you to keep on until we've caught Drenkle."

John nodded. "Yes. Just... When we're in the room, we have to be John and Sherlock. Okay?"

"Yes, John."

"Great. Well, I'm exhausted and going to bed. Are you coming?"

"Are you inviting?" Sherlock said archly, the corner of his mouth tipping up.

John flushed and spun away. "That's not..."

Sherlock surprised him with a deep rolling laugh.

"This is funny to you?" John whirled to face Sherlock who was suddenly standing close enough for John to feel the warmth rolling off of him. "Is this... Sherlock what are you doing?" John swallowed, then tried again, mouth suddenly too dry.

Sherlock tilted his head, staring down at John. "Do you want this?"

John swallowed again, taking a half-step back. "This is... this is a bit not good."

"Not good?" Sherlock echoed. "Eyes dilated, breath quick... But it's more than that. It has to be in the head. You have to want it. It has to be more than just desire. Do you desire me, John?" He stepped closer, touching the pads of his fingers lightly on John's collarbone.

"Wait..!" The word passed between his lips barely above a whisper.

"Do you, John Watson, desire me?"

"I thought..." he said faintly, "you didn't..."

"John. Answer the question." Sherlock's voice was husky and soft, urgent as he searched John's eyes. "I need you to answer the question."

"What do you... Sherlock, what do you want. What are you doing? I don't... I can't..."

Sherlock bent his head and brushed his lips across John's before pulling back and reading his face once more. "You need to tell me, John. I need to hear the words. I can't—I won't without the words. This is important."

John heard a shameful wordless sound come from him, and he shook his head.

"John, you are attracted to me, you are, I see it. If you want it, _tell_ me. I... want it. I want it, John." Sherlock gripped John's shoulder tightly now, eyes aglow like they were when faced with a fresh murder.

"God help me, I want it..." John finally rasped. And then found himself pushed back on the bed, Sherlock crawling on top of him. He let himself be overwhelmed by Sherlock's sudden emergence of passion before finally taking over the latter half and arching into Sherlock with a silent scream, collapsing down on top of him when Sherlock's arms gave out and he fell face first into the pillow.

Panting into the base of Sherlock's neck, he let his eyes fluttered closed.

Sherlock groaned beneath him. "Good. Are you better now?"

"Better?" John slurred. "What do you mean?"

He shifted beneath John making them both twinge where they were still connected. "You were quite out of sorts before."

"Hold on a minute..." John pushed himself up and rolled off of Sherlock's back so they both winced. "What was this about, Sherlock. You _told _me that you're married to your work. You _told_ me that you weren't interested..."

"Don't get angry, John," Sherlock said calmly, rolling over.

"No, don't tell me not to get angry—was this all just to calm me down?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. No, it wasn't. I told you I wanted it."

"Be straight with me, Sherlock," John said tightly, his eyes fierce with anger. "What were you doing? What's your game?"

"It's no game, John," Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow. "I told you I wanted it; I didn't lie. I merely asked if you were better because sex is usually a relaxing exercise once the sweating and shouting is all finished."

John settled a bit. "So you...wanted this."

"Don't be an idiot, John. Why do you think I demanded the answer of you. You're not having regrets, are you? You've done this before. It's not like it's a new exercise. So this can't be all that much of a shock to your system."

"How—never mind." John shook his head.

"So you're alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm alright," he replied tiredly.

"Very good. Are you finished panicking? May we eat dinner and then perhaps give this another go?"

John stared at him. "What about...what about everything you told me when we first met."

"Honestly, John," Sherlock scoffed. "Is not a man allowed to change his opinion. After all, marriage to my work was contingent on the fact that nothing better had come along. Do keep up."

Lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile, John appraised his friend cum lover and nodded. "Alright then. Let's get cleaned up and then eat. I think I have an appetite now." He rolled off the bed and headed into the bathroom, bringing back a damp wash cloth and cleaning them both. He pulled on his flannels again, hearing Sherlock do the same behind him. Between the two of them, they polished off the Chinese, John relieved to see Sherlock actually eating. They ate quickly and then moved back to the bed. Sherlock's lips wrapped around his cock, John came for the second time that night and then Sherlock returned the favour by collapsing over John's back with a strangled cry.

"Sherlock," John groaned into the pillow. "Gerrof..."

Sherlock just grunted and nuzzled John's ear, breath sighing softly as he slipped into sleep.

"Jesus..." John groaned as he shifted, Sherlock still lodged inside of him. He rolled his eyes and nuzzled into the pillow to try and fall asleep.

John woke the next morning, his cock hard and Sherlock rolling his hips on top of him, sucking at the junction of his neck. He muttered some combination of incomprehensible syllables and pushed back against him, feeling Sherlock's grin against his skin.

Sherlock rolled into him, slow and lazy, hands tracing along John's skin. They finished quietly, Sherlock's arms snaking around John's torso and pulling him back flush. Rolling off, Sherlock stretched long and thin before sauntering into the bathroom. The water came on leaving John to lounge in the bed for a while longer. He finally got up and went over to start the hot water heater to make tea.

"Your turn," Sherlock said, strolling out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam, towelling his hair.

John nodded and headed into the bathroom. By the time he was out of the shower, Sherlock was dolled up as Susan. John groaned.

Flicking the top of the newspaper down, Sherlock grinned at him. "Be ready to go shortly, John. We're going for breakfast."

"What, you actually eat, now that you're getting exercise."

Sherlock arched a brow at him. "You're okay with this."

"I'm more okay now than I was yesterday. Perhaps having sex smoothed me out, yes. And," John said as he pulled on pants and then his slacks, "yes, I think I'll want to continue...this...once we get back to Baker Street."

Eyes gleaming, Sherlock gave him a nod. "Very well. I trust you'll be able to handle this today then."

"Yes. I'll be fine."

"Excellent. We'll be taking lunch at The House Solitaire. Drenkle will be dining there."

"Right. He usually treats himself the day after the funeral."

Sherlock nodded and then came over to help John once more with his buttons, leaving the top four undone. "It suits you like this."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright then. To breakfast." And they went. Susan didn't so much get under his skin this time around, now that he knew what to expect, and now that he had clearly separate pictures of Sherlock and Susan. Perhaps that had been Sherlock's goal the whole time. What with last night's activities...

"It was a convenient side effect, yes, Mattie, but it was not the main motivation," Susan said, picking at the scarf in the shop they'd stopped in to browse. They slowly moved on into another shop, Susan playing at dressing up, throwing on coats and wild hats in a resale shop and laughing to Mattie about it.

The whole thing, to John, was a bit surreal. But he didn't confuse Sherlock and Susan. Susan was incredible. And had he been so inclined, he probably could have had a relationship with a woman like Susan. But Sherlock. Sherlock was sharper, wittier, more dangerous, and amazing. So he allowed himself to be content in the company of the woman Susan who flirted and was haughty but affectionate. "Mattie, I'm hungry. Lunch?" She put back the ridiculous fur coat and then straightened the draping sweater that created the illusion of small taut breasts beneath the fabric, the scarf knotted intricately around her neck, long silver necklaces hanging down beneath the ends of the scarf. Sherlock had been blessed with a rather nice curved arse and the trousers hung off it beautifully, loose and billowing around his legs, making his hips seem wider and more feminine. John shook his head and smiled, catching up to Susan and giving her a nice goose while holding the door to the restaurant open for her. She jumped and then gave him an appraising look, managing to smirk at him before sweeping through and requesting a table for two—the main area, please.

"So what does one eat here?" John asked, flicking open the menu as the waiter stood by, clearly intimidated by Susan's looking down her nose at him and John's brusqueness.

"You must be new," she drawled. "Well, give the man his recommendation." And then smiled.

The waiter scowled and then slurred, "Our special today is the lobster pasta with lime alfredo sauce. We also have the garlic tomato and basil soup with mozzarella croutons."

"Oh, don't get that, darling; I don't want to be kissing garlic mouth for the rest of the day..." Susan said with a wave of her hand. "I'll try the pasta."

"I'll have the skirt steak," John said and handed him back the menu. He leaned across the table when the waiter had gone and took Susan's hand. "Is he here?"

She leaned forwards as well, sliding her fingers through her chin-length curls and John caught the indication over her left shoulder. "He is. Bald but young, the sharp nose and red blazer. Stands out horribly. He keeps looking at his watch,"

"Actually..." John said slowly as he gave the room a broad sweet, eyeing the man casually. "I believe he's looking at you..."

Sher—Susan blinked in surprise. "Me?" Snapped her mouth shut and then blinked. "Hm. I suppose I am now considered his 'type.'" She withdrew her hand and frowned fiercely. "Look displeased. After we finish eating—I am quite interested in the pasta, and surprisingly, I am hungry. So we shall eat first. However, if it looks like there's a rift between us, he shall stay and perhaps—"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No. You are _not_ putting yourself in harms way," John hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mattie, don't be an idiot."

"You're the one being an idiot!"

"Hush. Don't make a scene." She leaned back in her chair and sipped her water. "Storm off to the loo after you've finished eating. The food's on its way."

John shook his head. "This is a terrible idea..."

"Eat your food quickly," she murmured, smiling brightly at the waiter.

John didn't quite have to pretend to be sullen—Sherlock was pissing him off on purpose. So when he was finished, he snarled at her and then slammed his fork down and stalked off to the loo. Pausing before he rounded the bend, he saw Drenkle rise from the table and saunter over to Sherlock. Who, he knew, was capable of defending himself, but it didn't make John feel any less cautious.

Susan looked up at him, feigning surprise, laughing suddenly, lovely. She held out her hand and invited him to sit, leaning forward. If John didn't know what was going on, he would have said she was clearly interested. So after several minutes, when they left, and Drenkle had a hand on the small of Susan's back—not an easy task when she stood several inches taller than him, John slunk after them, tailing carefully. He started at the text alert going off on his phone and dug it out of his pocket.

_Stay close. Have cuffs. Going to hotel. SH_

John watched Susan flirt and touch subtly, John knowing it was nothing to do with subtle, and everything to endear the man to her and make him follow through with his plan. John smiled grimly. Nevermind the hunter becoming hunted.

In the end, the whole affair was done much too quickly and with very little climax. Drenkle paid for a room where he would assumably pour wine and poison his victim into paralysis and then leave an hour later, victim slung around his shoulders and the bad apology that his lady friend was drunk. She would be taken back to a warehouse where he did his work and then plant the body somewhere it would be found with the most fuss.

Sherlock, of course, did not let it get that far. No sooner did they entered the room that John heard a pained shout and burst in to see Sherlock standing over the unconscious form of Drenkle, fists still raised.

"Well."

Sherlock looked at him. "Yes. Here. Cuff him. I'll text Lestrade."

"Right..." John caught the cuffs that Sherlock pulled from the handbag he had been carrying. "Honestly... I don't know how you have all of this on hand."

"They're just cuffs, John," he said, fingers tapping away at his mobile. "And I planned ahead. Obviously."

"Of course." John grunted as he dragged the body to the bathroom and cuffed him to the sink piping. He rejoined Sherlock, the man bent over a desk and scribbling. "What are you doing?"

"We're leaving."

"Okay. Yes. But what—"

"Leaving a note." He straightened and swept John out of the room, closing it firmly and tacking the note to the door.

John made a noise in his throat. "Oh Sherlock... You can't... You can't leave that..."

_No room service. Serial killer inside. Bathroom, Lestrade. SH_

"Doesn't matter. We're leaving."

"What's the rush."

Sherlock paused in dragging him down the hall and smirked. "We're headed back to Baker Street to discover whose bed is the more comfortable."

John blinked. "Oh. Okay. I like that plan very much."

"So glad you agree," Sherlock drawled. "I very much need to get out of these blouses. They're terrible."

John laughed. "They are very fetching. You would make a fetching woman."

Sherlock hummed and pulled him out of the hotel, heading back to theirs. "Perhaps. But as you noted before, it is very much not me, and I should like to be me again."

John smiled, still chuckling. "Brilliant. Then let's go be us back at Baker Street."

"Most intelligent statement of the day," Sherlock agreed, hauling him flush and kissing him in broad daylight.

"And," John added when they'd pulled apart, "I think we'll keep the extensions a short while. I like something to hold on to."

Sherlock's eyes flew wide and then he grinned and grabbed John's hand, dragging him back to the hotel.


	3. Epilogue

There's one word that terrifies Doctor John Watson when it comes out of his partner's mouth. _Bored_. Usually in conjunction of the signifier; _I'm bored_. Sometimes in the descriptive variant of _boring_. In any incarnation, John Watson quivers when the syllables pass the consulting detective's lips.

* * *

><p>"Oh God, Sherlock..." John came out of the bathroom and groaned seeing Sherlock pulling on a skirt that flowed loosely down to his calves. His legs looked shaved. "What are you doing<em> that<em> for?"

Sherlock stood and fastened the skirt. "John. What day is it?"

"April 1st—_shit_. You're not." His mouth hung open. "Are you!"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm bored. And feeling devious."

John stared a minute more before the laughter bubbled up from his belly and he was bent over from it, wheezing for breath. "Les...trade...going to...die..."

"Mm. Sally Donovan as well. Anderson will _love _me."

John grabbed the back of a chair for support.

"Come now, John. Get dressed. We're going to Scotland Yard." He pulled on a camisole and then draped the sweater around his shoulders. "Hurry up."

"We don't have a case do we?"

"No. However, I think Lestrade should meet my sister. Susan Holmes."

John was glad the t-shirt he was pulling over his head hid his face. "You're terrible."

"Not terrible, John. Bored."

"That's even worse." But he pulled on trousers anyway and straightened his hair, the action reminding him. "What about your hair?"

"It's not been cut in six months. It's long enough."

"Can I bring a camera?"

"I encourage a video recorder."

John shook his head, cheeks hurting from grinning.

* * *

><p>The small flip recorder tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, John strolled into Scotland Yard with Susan. He was trying very hard. <em>Do not give me away, John. I need you to be perfectly straight-faced<em>. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Smiled at Susan while he held the door open.

"Thank you, John," Susan purred.

"Hello, John!" the front desk attendant said as they passed, doing a double-take at Sherlock. Susan.

Susan swept into Lestrade's office, the door banging open making Lestrade wince. "Sherlo—erm... Hello?"

Susan smiled at him. "You must be Lestrade."

"That's what my office says. I'm sorry. Do I know you? Sherlock?"

"Is my brother," Susan says, voice crooning and like sex. "Susan. A pleasure."

John shuddered.

Lestrade managed not to let the drool fall out of his open mouth and looked between Susan—who smirked—and John who grinned and gave him a sheepish shrug. "...the fuck?"

"Sherry didn't tell you about me?" Susan pouted.

"Sherry?" Lestrade echoed.

"Call him that and he'll kill you," Susan said with a grin full of teeth.

Lestrade collapsed back into his chair, looking faint.

Susan laughed. "You poor darling. Sherry running you ragged?"

"Oh God... Two Holmes..."

John bit his cheek harder.

"I don't..."

Susan perched herself on his desk, smiling. "I just came to see where it was that Sherry works. He tells me nothing, you know. You're his boss?"

Lestrade snorted, cheeks flushed. "Hardly. When he works for me, it's not really _for_ me, but rather for himself. To solve the puzzles."

"Ah yes," Susan said. "He always was a fan of puzzles."

"So then..." Lestrade cleared his throat, looking away from Susan's hint of neck, covered by a scarf. "Are you... Is Mycroft the eldest?"

"Oh yes. I'm only two years older than Sherry. Myc's five years older than I."

John laughed, turning it into a cough smoothly, affecting innocence. Mycroft would likely be horrified at the nickname. Susan smiled at him.

"Sir, I nee—_shit_!" Sally Donovan said feelingly, starting at the sight of Sherlock. "What the hell! Did you finally go ape-shit, freak?"

Susan stood quickly, smiling wryly. "You must be Donovan then."

"Sorry?"

"Erm," Lestrade said before the situation could escalate, "Sally, meet Susan Holmes. Sherlock's...elder sister."

Sally's expression of shock was about as entertaining as Lestrade's. Slightly more so because she dropped her files. John was so kind as to retrieve them for her. "Th-thanks..." she stuttered out of shock.

"You're welcome," John murmured.

"Oh my God. You're like a male Sherlock... You... You look just _like_ him. This is... This is—Anderson!" She leaned out the door and shouted her partner's name.

Skidding into the room, Anderson stopped short and stared.

Susan glided over and held out a hand. "Anderson. Susan. Holmes. A pleasure." She gave him a brilliant smile.

Anderson hesitated, flicked a look around the room, and then smiled back as he shook her hand.

"There's a chap," she cooed, patting the back of his hand.

John saw the moment it all changed when Anderson snatched back his hand and stared at her with something akin to awe. He could only imagine Sherlock's inner glee.

"So you're..."

"Older. Only two years, darling." She smiled and then whirled away.

"Did you want to... go to lunch?" Anderson asked, looking surprised that he'd asked.

Susan laughed, the sound charming, even more so when she noticed Donovan's fierce glare. "Aren't you forward! I'm sorry." She came back and pecked Anderson on the cheek.

John shuddered.

"Sorry?" Anderson said in a daze.

"Yes, darling. I've already got a date with John."

"John?" He cried incredulously.

John choked back his own reply, settling for a smile.

"So...where _is_ Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, frowning at John.

Susan waved a hand and made a tsking noise. "He's off doing something for Myc that he doesn't want to do."

"Really?" Mycroft drawled at the doorway.

Susan looked over at him and smiled, holding out her hands. "There's my big brother!"

John suddenly felt this wasn't funny any longer.

Lestrade looked confused, Sally furious, and Anderson smitten.

Kissing him on both cheeks, Susan stepped out of arm's reach and smiled.

Mycroft smiled.

John felt like disappearing.

"Right!" Lestrade said loudly. "Well, um... When he gets back, we _could_ use his help on a case."

"Excellent!" Susan said, eyes sharpening on the DI. "What are the particulars."

"Sherlock—" Mycroft began.

"Isn't here, Myc, so I can easily handle it."

"Susan..." John said softly, as much to the elder Holmes as to Sherlock. This was going too far.

But she opened the file Lestrade handed to her, and scanned it quickly.

"_Susan_. There are some things that we should talk about..." Mycroft said quietly. "Such as your recent escape from that prison in Asia?"

Susan blinked and the scowled fiercely. "You _do_ know how to spoil a good joke, don't you..."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"What?" Lestrade found himself with the file stuffed into his hands and a face full of Susan. She grinned at him. "See you later, Detective. Don't miss me while I'm gone."

John huffed at his sudden cherry-red face and let himself be dragged out after Sherlock and Mycroft.

* * *

><p>Sherlock dragged him back to Scotland Yard early the next morning. John had, of course, wanted to stay home. The whole thing spelled disaster, especially when Sherlock had that <em>look<em> in his eyes.

It started out well. It really did. Sherlock breezed in the doors, nodded to Sally with a smug grin and then waltzed into Lestrade's office, rifling through the papers to pull out the file he'd been looking at yesterday. "It'll be done today," he told Lestrade through the man's spluttering.

"Oi! Freak!" Anderson shouted, picking up on Sally's favourite insult. "Why'd you hide away a sister like that?"

John groaned. It was over. It was all over.

Sherlock slunk towards Anderson, grinning. Anderson shrank back, but found himself against the wall. "Oh Anderson..." he said in the same tones as Susan. "You really are an insufferable idiot..." And then straightened and swept out through the absolutely floored gazes that followed him.

"Merciful God..." Lestrade whimpered.

"I know..." John said softly, patting the man's shoulder and then loping after Sherlock. So much for secrets kept... The reaction footage would at least be just as entertaining.


	4. Extra 01  Glasses Kink

Sherlock frowned at John and then impulsively picked up a pair of round specs and shoved them on his face. "There. Now you'll do." He stepped back to appraise his own work, eyes widening slightly for a second.

"Everything alright?"

Sherlock gave a curt nod and then dragged him to the door to take him to their suspect's house, pretending to be...whatever they were pretending to be. John didn't really know. Sherlock had fallen off muttering through the second half of his explanation. When they arrived at the college, he assumed he was to be a college professor or some sort of learned entity. Hence the specs, button-up, sweater vest, and jacket on top. Sherlock himself was dressed in some sort of three-piece nonsense, hair greyed and looking stern. He reminded John of a fierce sort of adjunct or dean of students. He repressed the shudder. They spoke to the suspect quickly before Sherlock pulled him out of the stuffy little room, dragged him down the hall and found an empty classroom.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

"Why do you have perfect eyesight..." he groaned, pushing John against the wall next to the door.

"Wha—" The sentence ended in a breathless huff as his hands came up to rest on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Your eyes... They're too perfect..." Sherlock repeated, his mouth attaching to his jaw beneath his ear.

John groaned, thinking well enough for being distracted by a sudden attack of his flat-mate cum lover. Partner? Boyfriend? The last sounded too normal for the two of them. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"_Nothing_," Sherlock whispered. "That is the inherent problem..." He gripped John's hips tightly.

"Oh my god... You..." his voice hitched as Sherlock pressed their hips together, claiming his mouth in a fierce kiss. "You like the _specs_?"

"John, they're gorgeous..." he breathed, rolling against him. "They're..." He traced his fingers along the arms into John's hair, gripping it tightly so he could yank John's head back and suck a mark onto his neck.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, hips bucking against him. "This is...!"

"It's perfect!"

"You're turned on by _glasses_!" He protested, even as his hands scrabbled for the buttons on Sherlock's vest, spreading his legs so Sherlock's hips slotted better on his. "That's..." he grunted as Sherlock suddenly pushed his hips back against the wall and undid his trousers, shoving his hand into his pants. "Ridicu_lous_! _Fuck_!"

"Yes..." Sherlock murmured, drawing out the 's,' as his eyes squeezed shut.

John growled and pushed Sherlock back, dragging him to the back of the classroom and pushing him over a desk.

"_Yes_, John." He turned his head to catch sight of John in the frames, squirming as John pulled his trousers down in a yank. "_Yes_..."

"_Fuck_..." John forced his fingers into Sherlock's mouth. "Shouldn't be doing this here..." He swore again lowly as Sherlock sucked on his fingers eagerly, tongue slipping between his fingers. "I've never seen you this eager for it..."

Sherlock groaned and reached back to pull John's hips to his. Moaned at the contact.

John pulled the fingers from his mouth and trailed them down his crack, pushing gently until one finger slid in. He worked it in, devouring Sherlock's small noises into his mouth, so different from what he usually experienced in the bedroom.

"More! More, John!" Sherlock panted, straining back on John's finger until he hissed at the addition of a second. "Come _on_!"

"_Jesus_, Sherlock! I can't—we haven't..." He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, bending more of his own weight on his back. "Slow down—I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me," Sherlock crooned.

And if his cock didn't twitch at that...

"Come on, John. Hurry up. Hurry up." He chanted, twisting to reach his arms back to feel the outline of the frames on his face.

John groaned, gripping his cock in one hand, giving his fingers one last crook inside Sherlock and then pulling out, giving in to Sherlock's demands. He pressed in slowly, pushing Sherlock down, chest flush against the surface as his hips twitched. "Shit, Sherlock... You're so fucking hot..."

"I'm turning you on..." he gasped as he arched back onto John's cock, "just by being so _fucking_ turned on..."

Panting, John finally slid home, shaking Sherlock's hands away from his head. He reached around, grabbing his cock in the hand not holding him down. "You're...ridiculous, you know..."

Sherlock's head fell down to the desk, pushing back and squirming. "Come _on_, John...! I'm begging already..." he whined.

"How do you want it?" John asked, voice rough, and he shuddered as his hips stuttered forward just a bit.

"_Hard_. Fast. Just _move_, dammit!"

Growling again, he moved his grip to Sherlock's hips and pulled back, slamming into him, loving the arch to Sherlock's back as his head came up and he let out a small cry.

"Again!"

"You'll get it..." John whispered harshly. He slammed into him again, bending to bite just above Sherlock's collar, making sure the specs dug into the back of his skull.

"Oh God..." Sherlock pushed back, meeting every one of his thrusts, bucking under John's hand. "I'm...close. Com—ome on!"

"Shut _up_! You're making too much noise," John ordered, close himself, nearly losing it when Sherlock arched under him and cried out. Clamping a hand over his mouth, John thrust a few times more and gave a muffled groan as he emptied himself into Sherlock. He lay draped across his back, panting heavily.

Nudging at him with an elbow, Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible. Finally, "Off..."

John felt Sherlock's shudder as he pulled out, adjusting the frames again on his face and hobbling across the room for tissues. "We're ridiculous, you know."

Sherlock had flipped over so his back was flat against the desk, a sated smile dopily on his lips. "That's happening again."

John snorted, cleaned himself and then pulled his pants and trousers up. "Not in a public building..."

"I've been turned on since you put those on..." He arched his head back to watch John.

Dropping the tissues on Sherlock's chest he pulled out his mobile out and used the screen to make sure he looked put together. "You can dress yourself again?"

"We're going home. To have sex. Again," Sherlock said, voice soft, eyelids fluttering.

John snorted, the lust sweeping through him all the same. "You're ridiculous. Get yourself put together. When we get home, I'll wear them and ride you so you can watch."

Sucking in air, Sherlock was on his feet suddenly and hastily pulling his clothes into sorts, looking perfect in a minute, save for his hair standing unruly and on end. John smiled fondly and pulled Sherlock down to comb his fingers through it to make it neater. Then lead the way to find a taxi where they'd hopefully be able to make it home without frightening the driver.


	5. Extra 02  Fall in Line

The invite buzzed in just after John had finished reading the harried text from Lestrade: _I__don't__care__what__it__takes_PLEASE _make__him__behave.__Being__observed__today.__Supervisor__strict._

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

Straightening his shoulders, John met his eyes. "We're going, of course. You, however, will be a perfect gentleman for Lestrade."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I hardly—"

"As a favour."

"I don't—"

"As well as for the incentive that I will enact one of your fantasies when we've finished."

Sherlock perked up at that, a grin crossing his lips. "Any?"

"Pick one, tell me, and I'll do my best." He nodded firmly, folding his arms.

Sherlock licked his lips, voice a little husky. "Okay."

He felt his brows go up. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Even towards Anderson?"

"Don't ask the impossible, John." He rolled his eyes again and then ran for his coat. "Let's go, then."

John grabbed his own coat and then followed Sherlock down to the taxi. He kept flicking glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, knowing the other man could probably see them coming. But he sat with his hands folded demurely in his lap, still. He exited the taxi sedately, walking to the yellow tape, behind which Lestrade stood with Donovan, Anderson crouching next to the body. He sent Sherlock a smug look and then slowly reached out a finger and touched the body. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist as the man started forward, quivering with anger as his brows dipped down fiercely.

"Ah! Sherlock! And John," Lestrade said loudly, coming over to the yellow tape. "Why didn't you come in."

"I was waiting for your permission, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, with a look of crafted innocence.

Lestrade gaped at him for a second before pulling the tape up and allowing them both to duck under. "What did you_do_, Watson?"

John gave his own look of innocence, shrugging, shoving hands deeper into his pockets. "I told him to behave."

"At _gunpoint_?" Lestrade hissed, watching Sherlock wander over to the body, Anderson wandering away, and squat, pulling on gloves to examine.

John made a disapproving scoff. "That's _hardly_ necessary."

"You _must_teach me this trick," Lestrade grumbled.

John's brows flew up and felt his face twist into a strange expression. "I don't think it would be _quite_ as effective..."

Lestrade squinted at him. "Right then."

"That your supervisor?" John said with a subtle nod at the tall man over by the squad car. With a clip board. Predictable.

"Mm. Yes. We should ah... probably join Sherlock..."

John smiled and strolled up behind his flatmate and then knelt at his side. "So?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked at him quickly and then back at the body. And then at Lestrade. "Sir, the victim was approximately 45, a divorcee, she did _not_have possession of the child. She had troubles with substance abuse. That is not, however, what killed her." He peered back down at the body, seeming to ignore Lestrade and Donovan's gaping. "She seems to have... John, please verify my conclusion, but she seems to have died from starvation."

John frowned then and leaned over the body. "Huh. Cracked skin, loose skin due to loosing weight too quickly, sallow complexion... Yes. I agree. Starvation."

Sherlock gave him a nod and a low, "Thank you, John."

He stood and moved back to stand perpendicular to Lestrade and Sally, paying more attention to their reactions than Sherlock's deductions, filing away that information for when Sherlock required him to need it later. Until he turned to look at Sherlock, still kneeling on the ground, eyes wide and so damned _earnest_ that John felt stirrings in places other than his upper half. Sherlock blinked slowly, looking up through his lashes, for all intents and purposes, an eager-to-please consultant. His lips spread in a soft grin at John's sudden intake of breath and eyes widening.

"Was that all you needed, Inspector?" Sherlock asked quietly, _gently_, rising gracefully to his feet. His head was ducked a little so he seemed shorter, and all the blustery confidence he usually held about himself like a crown and sceptre were gone in place of timidity and submission.

John liked it.

"Um..." Lestrade looked flushed and flustered. "Yea—yes. I think that's it... Um. Thanks for your help. I guess." He looked over at John, eyes wide and staring, probably meaning something along the lines of _what__have__you__done__to__Sherlock_?

John smiled calmly, hoping he wasn't flushed too badly. "Later then."

Lestrade nodded rather numbly. "Oh wait. What are we looking for then?"

"One of those self-help speakers, Sir. There's a pamphlet in her pocket. She's probably been going regularly. Hence the self-denial. Though it didn't stop the drugs." He smiled then, happy and looking for approval.

"Jesus..." Lestrade muttered.

"Time to go!" John said brightly, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist and dragging him towards the yellow tape. "Best of luck!"

"J-john!" Sherlock's voice hitched, still in character as John dragged him to the kerb to hail a taxi.

"Stop talking," John growled, surprised to feel the shudder through Sherlock's arm. He turned as the taxi slowed to a stop. "Oh."

Sherlock's eyes widened and then narrowed as something akin to a blush pinked his cheeks. "Figured it out, have you..."

He only grinned and then stood back. "Get in."

His flatmate nodding, Sherlock opened the door and quickly scooted into the seat.

"No talking the ride home. Keep your hands in your lap," he ordered.

Sherlock sat still, allowed himself to be dragged from the taxi when they arrived.

"Pay."

He floundered for his wallet and shoved some bills at the cabbie and then stared expectantly at John, cheek slightly flushed.

"Go inside," John said lowly, looking him up and down. "Take your coat off. Hang it. Then go into the bedroom and strip, lying on the bed."

Sherlock's shaky nod in answer was enough. And then he's gone, almost running to the bedroom.

John took his time, hanging his coat and lining up his shoes neatly by the door. Pads to their bedroom, Sherlock's, since it was easier each time they got their hands on each other, and then it just became habit. He paused in the doorway and looked Sherlock over, nude and stretched out, shoulders hunched up against the headboard. John smiled. "You were very good at the crime scene. I'm surprised Lestrade didn't have a heart attack."

Sherlock's lips twitched in a smile that he wasn't sure he was allowed to show.

"This is your fantasy, I'm guessing."

"You deduct very well," Sherlock replied huskily. He squirmed slightly, bringing John's attention to just how much he was excited.

"Hands above your head. Don't touch yourself," he said curtly, placing his own hands in the small of his back, a loose imitation of military that made Sherlock suck in air. He then stripped off his jumper and folded it carefully onto the dresser and stepped out of his jeans, laying those over the back of a chair. Getting up on the bed next to Sherlock's head, he pulled down his pants and offered his prick towards Sherlock. "Suck me."

And Sherlock did, eyes fluttering closed as he grabbed on to John's hips to balance himself. Cheeks hollowing, he laved his tongue flat against the bottom of his cock making him hiss as Sherlock groaned. The vibrations made him shudder, but he fought to stay still and not thrust into his lover's mouth. Sherlock pulled back to suckle the head, tongue exploring everywhere, teasing and licking. "_Off_," John managed to bark.

Sherlock withdrew as if hauled off, staring up at him with wide eyes, dark with lust, wanting more. "Now what," he prompted breathlessly.

Shifting, John moved back and stood at the end of the bed. "Suck your fingers. Make a show of it." Sherlock grinned and relaxed back against the headboard, sucking two fingers into his mouth. John watched the digits disappear and reappear, faint light from outside glinting off the spit, accentuating the obscene noises. "That's all the slick you'll get." He bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent the pleased little smile that threatened to burst forth at Sherlock's renewed effort and soft moans. "That's enough. Prepare yourself." And then watched the fingers slide down his body, pausing over his prick, and then moving on at a disapproving noise from John. From his vantage point, John could see the ring of muscle, Sherlock's fingers slipping into himself. "Bring yourself close. Hit your prostate once—there you go." He watched another few thrusts before barking to stop again. Then climbed up on the bed and nudged Sherlock's knees further apart to accommodate his hips.

"John..." He breathed, muscles strained. "Come on."

"Don't touch yourself. Hands above your head again," he ordered, voice husky as he pulled Sherlock's hips up onto his thighs when he sat back on his heels. He nudged the tip of his prick up against Sherlock's hole and stayed there, rocking forward so all Sherlock had was the pressure but not the penetration. He soon had him gasping and arching his hips towards John desperately, whining.

"John...! John come _on_!" he gasped.

And then John slid into him in one smooth motion, Sherlock's spine arching.

"Oh _God_ yes... Come on, John!" His hands came down from over his head, twisting in the sheets.

"Don't hold back," he growled, Sherlock whining high in his throat as John slammed into him.

"_Fuck_," he gasped, eyes flying open. "_Oh_! Right there..! John!"

John grit his teeth, trying to hold off for all Sherlock's gasping, moaning, and writhing pushed him to the edge.

"Again! Again!" Sherlock cried, arching hard against John, making him gasp, rhythm stuttering. "Jo-ohn...!" Sherlock's hands scrabbled for something to hold onto, one settling into a stranglehold in the sheets, the other clamping down over one of John's on Sherlock's hips, fingers interlacing as all the breath seemed bottled up in him while his jaw fell open in a noiselessly scream of release.

John thrust through it, until he too stuttered through his release and the last of his groan was drowned into Sherlock's chest. A few moments passed and then he pulled out of Sherlock slowly and reached over to the bedside table for a tissue, wiping them both before collapsing next to Sherlock's side. He smiled at the blissed, sated expression crossing his lover's features and pulled the duvet up before they chilled.

"That was...excellent, John."

"Glad you approve," he replied wryly. "Good thing you weren't in the military, huh."

Sherlock shuddered. "I would have died. I'd never have survived training. Besides." He rolled onto his side to look at John. "I really think you're the only one who could have wrung that sort of reaction out of me. I generally very much don't like being bossed around, you know."

"I know." John smiled at him. "You're quite the headstrong one..." He slung an arm over Sherlock's hips. Smacked his arse. "Perhaps you just need a bit of punishment."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and his tongue darted across his lips.

"Oh God. That another on your fantasy list?" John groaned, surprised to see Sherlock flushing. Then chuckled. "Perhaps later."

"Oh John... You _do_ spoil me..." he said with a wicked grin. "Don't ever stop."

"I'll try not to..." He replied with a yawn. "I'm having a nap. You're welcome to join me." And closed his eyes.

Snuggling closer, Sherlock pulled John's arm around him tighter. "I might. Though I haven't forgotten about your promise for later..."

"Promise...? That wasn't a promise..." he said fuzzily, drifting off. "Later..."

"Later," he heard Sherlock agree.


	6. Extra 03 Your Turn

"I feel badly, John..." Sherlock said, staring up at the ceiling and tracing lazy fingers up and down John's torso."

"Sherlock? Feeling? Is the world ending?" John mumbled, letting the sun float red behind his closed eyelids.

Sherlock snorted. "Stop being facetious."

"Why do you feel badly?"

"I've been having all this fun with Lestrade and co, and I feel that you've been left out."

"Oh no."

"I—"

"I had plenty of fun with bossing you around," John said quickly.

"Well. Perhaps."

"And that ended perfectly, mind you."

"Of course it did. It was designed to. You wanted someone to boss around just as badly as I found out I liked being ordered."

"Yes, convenient that," John drawled, more awake now, the scritching of Sherlock's fingers more arousing rather than soothing.

"Of course. It's as if we've been designed for one another."

"Never pegged you for a romantic, Sherloc—Ow!" His eyes flew open and he glared at Sherlock, rubbing at his offended nipple. The replying grin was a bit terrifying.

"Make tea. Then we're going to set about and see what we can do with you."

He groaned. "I'm not getting out of bed right now. I'm taking a much-deserved lie-in, and you've no right to order me about."

"I'll blow you later," Sherlock said casually. "Just how you like it."

"Fuck you," John grumbled, rolling off the bed, opening the blinds just to annoy Sherlock.

"We can do that too."

"I hate you."

"Yes, John." Sherlock rolled over on the bed, looking gracefully rumpled, a sated smile gracing his lips.

He stomped into the kitchen and slammed the kettle on the stove, glaring at it, suddenly wishing he'd put some flannels on or something so he wasn't standing there in just his pants.

"I love it when you're passive-aggressive," Sherlock called.

"Shut it!"

"Maybe I'll even finger you while I fellate you."

"_Sherlock_!"

His flat-mate cum lover appeared in the doorway, smiling smugly, leaning into the door jam. "I don't think we could make you Harry."

"_God_ no."

"But perhaps we could have senior Watson in for a visit?" Sherlock frowned. "No. No that won't do."

"Sherlock, this is me telling you, _for_ the record, that this is a _bad_ idea. Bad."

"Noted and recorded, along with..." Sherlock cocked his head, "forty two other occasions where you have mentioned that something is a 'bad idea.'"

"You astound me."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a complement that time," John groused, heading back into Sherlock's—now their—bed room to grab flannels.

"Kettle's singing," Sherlock called unnecessarily over the shrill wail.

"So turn off the heat!" John yelled back.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, eyes alight as John re-entered the kitchen. "Oh John."

He cringed and grabbed for the kettle, turning the heat off and pouring two mugs for them. "I don't want to know your idea."

"Could I _please_ make you up as Mycroft? I'd _love_ to convince Lestrade that he's randomly shrunk half a foot overnight. Oh _please_ John?"

He gaped.

"I know where to get prosthetics. You're not allergic to latex, are you? No, of course not, that was a stupid question; I shouldn't have even asked. You wear latex all the time. Stupid of me. I'm sorry, I just so distracted by the idea..."

"_No_."

Sherlock sucked in air. "I've an even _better_ idea."

"By normal means, one should mean 'worse.' Sherlock—"

"You're not saying no to this one, John. Even you shall find it amusing."

"Well we're not amused, so..." He offered one of the mugs to Sherlock. "Just have to forget the whole plan."

Sherlock merely grinned.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, John found himself glaring into a mirror at Lestrade.<p>

"Stop fussing. You'll crease the make-up."

"Maybe, because I didn't _want_ to do this in the first place."

Sherlock dabbed at his face with a brush. "Of course. But I've promised to make it up to you. So you'll do it. Because you do everything I ask," he said casually.

"Sounds a lot like an abusive relationship to me."

Sherlock laughed aloud. "You must know, John. I would do anything for you."

"Except the dishes, the laundry, make tea, hoovering, pay the bills, any sort of house-keeping in general, tell me where you're going, give me warning when you have experiments in the kitchen that are likely to kill me, keep your shoes neatly at the doo—"

"I think you've made your point," Sherlock said, in that same blasé tone that had been driving John mad all morning.

"Yeah well." Then glanced at himself in the mirror again. "Fuck. I don't even look like me."

"That was, John, the point of the exercise."

"So now what?" He pulled at a greyed piece of his hair, frowning, Lestrade's frown looking back at him.

Sherlock's grin was bright and a little manic. "Now we go to Lestrade's haunts, and I kiss you in public places."

"_Sherlock_! We can't do that! That will completely ruin his reputation!"

Sherlock grinned more. "I want a little revenge for him benching me."

He groaned. "That was seven _months_ ago!"

Sniffing, Sherlock whirled away and put on his coat. "Of course. You've heard the adage. Best served cold and all that." He waved a hand, the thought not interesting enough to hold his attention for long. "Let's go, John."

He got up and with one last look at the man in the mirror and followed Sherlock out of the flat. "Jesus..."

* * *

><p>They dropped by a chips stand, the man behind the counter smiling widely and greeting him with a "Greg!" before quickly serving up Lestrade's favourite. "On the house, mate. Thanks for last week, yeah?"<p>

John gave a hesitant smile, Sherlock suddenly looming at his shoulder. "Oh. Um. Right."

"Oh. Sherlock! Hullo."

"You _know_ him?" John asked, voice jumping.

"'Course I know Sherlock." The guy grinned. "Got me cleared of being an accessory to murder! You remember that, right? You were working that case."

"O-oh! Right!" Smacked his forehead. "Forgot..."

The guy smiled, the expression slipping as he saw Sherlock's hand curve around John's waist, guiding him away to move on.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, realising that only made the situation more suspect as heat flooded his cheeks. This was not going to be easy. He straightened, resolving to act natural about all this. It was a bit poor form, and he felt bad for Greg. Even if his benching Sherlock on a case had, in turn, made him crazy too. He sighed. "Where to next?" Popped a chip in his mouth. "Ugh. These are terrible. Too much vinegar..."

Sherlock hummed, and pushed minutely at the small of his back. "Come along." He stepped off the kerb and hailed a taxi.

Which took them to the station.

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed, feeling a distinctive sense of deja vu as he grabbed the cuff of his flat-mate's coat. "We are _not_ going into the station."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Lestrade, you seem to have gotten shorter. Something wrong with your back?"

John flushed, grit his teeth, but the remark set him off enough that Sherlock was able to drag him into Scotland Yard.

"Sir?" The secretary said, half rising as he was dragged by by Sherlock.

"It's fine," he glanced at her name tag quickly, "Marie."

She frowned but sat again, watching them go by.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Sally said, trotting up to them. "And I thought you had a doctor's appointment?"

"Cancelled," Sherlock said, looking over her head.

"Sir..." Sally frowned. "Aren't you..." She shook her head. "Is there something wrong?"

John opened his mouth.

"No, nothing wrong," Sherlock grinned.

"Stop that," she snapped. "It's creepy. And let the DI answer for himself!"

"Nothing's wrong, Sally. I... The appointment was cancelled. And I'm tired."

Her expression softened, chastised, and she reached out, hand falling short of landing on his arm, but she nodded. Then frowned at Sherlock. "Don't tire him out. He doesn't need your stress."

Nodding solemnly, Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder, stepping closer. "Of course not."

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't know what you're pulling, freak, but I think we're all getting tired of your tricks and games."

Keeping her gaze, John saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye, lips suddenly pressed to his temple. He froze.

Sally gaped, looked around quickly as if to find someone to tattle to, but, finding no one, fled to her desk. Paused. Sent one last look at them and glared. "You're short!"

John arched a brow. Maybe this could be fun. "Back to work, Donovan."

She rolled her eyes and did as told.

"Quick," John said. "Where's Anderson likely to be?"

Sherlock's answering grin was immediate. "This way!"

They jogged down the halls, Sherlock giggling, small titters held behind the cuff of his coat that he held over his mouth. They made a small detour by the morgue and snogged quickly outside of Molly's door, John laughing at her squeak as they darted away.

Peering into the window of the lab where Anderson was, Sherlock quickly deduced that he'd need a loo break soon. Not that it was hard to see what with the man shifting his hips and weight from foot to foot. So Sherlock pulled John back to the wall, John appreciating the extra inch or so that the lifts on his shoes gave. He let his eyes fall shut as he kissed Sherlock, sucking in his lower lip, forcing down the smile it forced to his own lips at the small gasp he gave. He bit gently, pressing his hips up against Sherlock's, sighing into the feeling. Then almost choked on his own air as Anderson gave a small scream of horror and there was the sound of dropped glass and papers and other objects.

"Anderson! Look at what a mess you're making!" John snapped.

Anderson looked up at him, crouched over his dropped belongings, eyes wide and lip curled up in horror and disgust. "You too?"

John frowned. "What do you mean 'me too.'"

"_Him_!" Anderson said a little shrilly, pointing a shaking finger at Sherlock. "He's gotten to you _too_!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes when John glanced at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Anderson. Sell your story straight."

"_You_! And then...then..._John_. The both of you! He's playing you both like a—"

"That's enough, Anderson." John crossed his arms and frowned to look threatening. "Clean this mess up and get ahold of yourself. Calm that temper of yours."

He groaned as Sherlock bent to nibble at John's ear.

Flushing, John waved him off and gave Anderson another _look_ before stomping down the hallway. He pushed into an empty room and promptly gave over to the laughter, bending over his abdomen, Sherlock giggling quietly behind him. "Oh shite! That was worth it!"

"I will now allow myself an indulgent 'I told you so,'" Sherlock said smugly, boxing John in. "Would you like to collect here or at home?"

John sucked in air. "Oh God. Not yet. At home."

"Perfect," Sherlock purred before whirling away and waltzing out the door. "Come along then. _Lestrade_."

John grinned and shook his head, ducking under Sherlock's arm into the hallway.

* * *

><p>They spent the rest of the day generally making (mostly) innocent mischief. Then Sherlock dragged John home and shoved him into the shower.<p>

"Get rid of all that make up. I'm not giving you a blowjob when you're looking like _him_." And then left John to himself.

After John shook himself, he stripped quicker than his military days and jumped in the shower after pulling the bigger pieces off and dropping them in the rubbish bin. He had just stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist when Sherlock was suddenly in the doorway, eyes bright.

"Leave it. You don't need it."

John flushed but nodded eagerly. He followed Sherlock to his bedroom where the other man pushed him down on the bed and crawled, fully-clothed onto the bed.

"No need to strip you," he said, voice low and full of promise.

John's breath hitched. "Come on then." Sherlock's brow arched high, but his lips curved up, full and perfect. Keeping John's gaze, he dipped his head, looking rather like a cat stalking prey, moving forward and dipping his head further so his warm breath drifted onto John's half-hard prick.

"Look at you. So clean," Sherlock murmured, head dipping lower now, tongue flicking out over the head before wetting pinked lips. "You've been waiting all day, haven't you."

"_Yes_." John held his breath as Sherlock closed his lips over the head of his cock and sucked _hard_. All the air came whooshing out. He shifted his elbows more securely to watch Sherlock, nibbling on his lower lip. "Yes..." He didn't blink as Sherlock worked his mouth down the shaft of his cock, tongue pressing up against the bottom.

Sherlock's fingers pressed marks into his thighs, having fully swallowed John. He shifted, pulling off before swallowing him again, pulling off with just a slight scrape of teeth.

John hissed, pressing his hips to the bed. "Yes yes yes...!"

Sherlock pressed his lips around the head again, moaning softly, making John twitch from the vibrations.

He watched as his lover's eyes fluttered closed and he _hummed_. John gasped and gripped the sheets to keep him on Earth. One hand crawled down to Sherlock's head, burying its fingers into the dark hair. Tangling tight. Sherlock moaned.

Hands snaking down to cup his arse, Sherlock circled his first two fingers around John's cock before pressing up against his hole.

"Oh god..." He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation, the pad of Sherlock's finger pressing in. He choked off a cry.

Sherlock looked up at him again, eyes pale and intense. Let go of John's prick. "Don't muffle it," he ordered, voice gravelly and low.

John nodded eagerly and moaned when Sherlock's teeth scraped over the head, soothed by his tongue. "Fuck...! I'm so close—_guh_!" He arched up sharply as Sherlock's finger pressed in fully. "Ye-es...! _Fuck_!" He pushed up into Sherlock's mouth, the resounding groan trickling back to his ears. He heard the sharp inhale through nostrils as Sherlock pressed John's hips down, crooking his finger and sucking hard. "Sh-Sherlo...ock!"

Teeth scraping again, his tongue laved over the slit. Sherlock's fingers rubbed just the right way as he gave another hard pull, and then John's entire world blanked out. When the tension left and he melted into the sheets, he managed to open his eyes to catch Sherlock's wide-eyed look. "Wow..." he slurred. "C'mere."

"I'm fine."

"Let me..."

Sherlock flushed suddenly and looked away. "I'm fine."

John blinked, his brain cells bumping together slowly. "_Oh_." Then laughed. "Really?"

"Don't be..."

Grabbing his arms, John hauled Sherlock up over himself like a blanket, wrapping his arms around his chest. "I was just that much of a turn-on?"

"Shut up."

His completely embarrassed and disgruntled tones made John burst out laughing. That and the flamed tips of his ears.

"John _Hamish_ Watson," Sherlock hissed, pushing at his shoulders to get away.

Shaking, John only held tighter. "Jesus," he panted, still chortling. "Stop it! You're being ridiculous."

"I am _not_!" Sherlock cried, affront making him squirm harder.

"Sherlock. You came without being touched. From getting me off."

"Shut _up_!"

John laughed again. "That's not something to be embarrassed about! That's... fuck, that's _hot_!"

He stilled.

"It's _fine_, Sherlock. That's...definitely fine. I'd have liked to get you off, but you did quite the number on me. And well. The fact that you came without being touched. I'm all sorts of chuffed about it."

"Oh."

"And now I'm going to sleep. You should join me. We'll have dinner later."

* * *

><p>John woke later to Sherlock's mobile ringing. "Sh'r'clk... phone..." When Sherlock only grunted, he reached over him and swiped it off the bedside table, answering as he brought it up to his ear. "H'lo...?"<p>

"_Sherlock __bloody __Holmes! __What __the __FUCK __is __your __problem, __you __creeping __son of a bitch!_"

John held the phone away and set it on speaker. "It's Lestrade."

Sherlock grunted again, brows twitching at Lestrade's shrill voice.

"_When __I __get __my __hands __on __you, __you __fucker, __I'm __going __to __arrest __you! __Impersonating __a __public __officer__—__and __WATSON! __I __know __you're __in __on __this! __You're __just __as __bad __as __he __is, __you __idiot! __What __were __you __thinking, __getting __involved __wi__—__DAMN __YOU, __Sherlock! __I __don't __even__—_"

"Just a bit of fun, Lestrade..." Sherlock drawled, voice sleep-soft and content.

"_Just __a __bit __of __fun __my __ARSE! __You've __ruined __my __reputation __COMPLETELY! __MY __WIFE! __FUCK! __MY __WIFE! __She__—__HOLMES!_" Lestrade roared. "_I __HATE __YOU_."

"See you when we have a case, Inspector." Sherlock picked up his mobile and rung off. Then rolled over to face John. "That was fun."

John shook his head, amused. "Your idea of fun, Sherlock, is going to get us into serious trouble."

"John, I approve of your heightening threshold for 'serious trouble.' Now. What are your thoughts of returning a favour?"

John grinned. "Right then. Shall we see how quickly I can get you off?"

Sherlock's lids fluttered as he nodded. "_Yes_ please."


End file.
